Clingy
Fix your thoughts on what is true, and
honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things
that are excellent and worthy of praise. (Phil. 4:8)
Have you ever
thought, "I'm a spiritual flop," or "The only fruit I bear is
fear." Ever said, "Perfect peace? I feel like a perfect mess."
The phrase "fruitless and fret-filled" describes too many of us. We
don't want it to because we long to follow Paul's admonition to, "Fix your
thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and
admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise."
(Phil. 4:8) So, with a grimace and fresh resolve, we determine, Today I’m only going to think of true,
honorable, and right thoughts . . . even if it kills me. Unfortunately, Paul's
call to peace can become a list of requirements: every thought must be true, must be honorable, must be
right, must be pure, and must be lovely, admirable, excellent
and worthy of praise. Gulp. Who can do that?
Maybe Paul’s list
works for you. But if it doesn’t, there’s a simpler approach. Make it your aim
to cling to Christ. Isn’t he true, honorable, right, pure, lovely, admirable,
excellent, and worthy of praise? “Abide in Me, and I
in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself unless it abides in the vine,
so neither can you unless you abide in Me. I am the vine, you are the branches;
he who abides in Me and I in him, he bears much fruit, for apart from Me you
can do nothing. If anyone does not abide in Me, he is thrown away as a branch
and dries up; and they gather them, and cast them into the fire and they are
burned. If you abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ask whatever you wish,
and it will be done for you. My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much
fruit, and so prove to be My disciples. Just as the Father has loved Me, I have
also loved you; abide in My love. If you keep My commandments, you will abide
in My love; just as I have kept My Father's commandments and abide in His love.”
(John 15:4-10)
Jesus' allegory is simple. God is like a vine keeper. He
lives and loves to coax the best out of his vines. He pampers, prunes, blesses
and cuts them. His aim is singular: "What can I do to prompt
produce?" God is a capable orchardist who carefully superintends his
vineyard. And Jesus plays the role of the vine. Non-gardeners might confuse the
vine and the branch. To see the vine, lower your gaze from the stringy, winding
branches to the thick base below. The vine is the root and trunk of the plant.
It transfers nutrients from the soil to the branches. Jesus makes the stunning
claim, "I am the real root of life." If anything good comes into our
lives, he is the conduit. And who are we? We are the branches. We bear fruit:
"love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness." (Gal.
5:22) We meditate on what is "true, and honorable, and right, and pure,
and lovely, and admirable . . . excellent and worthy of praise." (Phil.
4:8) Our gentleness is evident to all. We bask in the "peace of God, which
transcends all understanding." (Phil. 4:7) And as we cling to Christ, God
is honored. "My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit, and
so prove to be My disciples." (John 15:8)
The Father tends. Jesus nourishes. We receive, and grapes
appear. Passersby, stunned at the overflowing baskets of love, grace and peace
can't help but ask, "Who runs this vineyard?" And God is honored with
such questions. For this reason, then, fruit-bearing matters to God. And it
matters to you, too. Because don’t you grow weary of unrest? Aren’t you ready
to be done with sleepless nights? You long to be "anxious for
nothing." You long for the fruit of the Spirit. But how do you bear this
fruit? By trying harder? No. Branches bear fruit by hanging tighter.
Our assignment is not fruitfulness, but faithfulness. The
secret to fruit bearing and anxiety-free living is less about doing, and more
about abiding. And just in case we miss this point, Jesus employed the word abide(s) ten times in those seven verses
of John 15:4-10. (See, above.) "Come,
live in me!" Jesus invites. "Make my home your home." Odds are
that you know what it means to be at home somewhere. To be at home is to feel
safe. Your home is a place of refuge and security. To be at home is to be
comfortable. To be at home is to be familiar. When you enter the door, you don’t
have to consult a blueprint to find the kitchen. Our aim – our only aim – is to
be at home in Christ. He’s not a roadside park, or hotel room. He’s our
permanent mailing address. Christ is our home. He is our place of refuge and
security. We are comfortable in his presence, and free to be our authentic
selves. We know our way around in him. We know his heart and his ways. We rest
in him, find our nourishment in him. His roof of grace protects us from storms
of guilt. His walls of providence secure us from destructive winds. His
fireplace warms us during the lonely winters of life. We linger in the abode of
Christ and never leave.
The branch never lets go of the vine. Ever. Does a branch
show up on Sundays for its once-a-week meal? Only at the risk of death. The
healthy branch never releases the vine, because there it receives nutrients
twenty-four hours a day. If branches had seminars, the topic would be
"Secrets of Vine Grabbing." But branches don't have seminars, because
to attend them they would have to release the vine – something they refuse to
do. The dominant duty of the branch is to cling to the vine. And the dominant
duty of the disciple is the same. We Christians tend to miss that. We banter
about pledges to "change the world," "make a difference for
Christ," and "lead people to the Lord." Yet these are
by-products of the Christ-focused life. Our goal is not to bear fruit. Our goal
is to stay attached. For instance, when a father leads his four-year-old son
down a crowded street, he takes him by the hand and says, "Hold on to
me." He doesn't say, "Memorize the map," or "Take your
chances dodging the traffic," or "Let's see if you can find your way
home." The good father gives the child one responsibility: "Hold on
to my hand." God does the same with us. Don't load yourself down with
lists. Don't enhance your anxiety with the fear of not fulfilling them. Your
goal is not to know every detail of the future. Your goal is to hold the hand
of the One who does and never, ever let go. That was the choice of Kent
Brantly.
Brantly was a medical missionary in Liberia, waging a war
on the cruelest of viruses, Ebola. The epidemic was killing people by the
thousands. As much as any person in the world, Brantly knew the consequences of
the disease. He had treated dozens of cases. He knew the symptoms – soaring fever,
severe diarrhea and nausea. He’d seen the results of the virus, and for the
first time he was feeling the symptoms himself. His colleagues had drawn blood
and begun the tests. But it would be at least three days before they knew the
results. So, Dr. Brantly quarantined himself in his house and waited. His wife
and family were across the ocean. His co-workers couldn’t enter his residence.
He was, quite literally, alone with his thoughts. He opened his Bible and
meditated on a passage from the book of Hebrews. Then he wrote in his journal,
"The promise of entering his rest still stands, so let us never give up.
Let us, therefore, make every effort . . . to enter that rest." Dr.
Brantly considered the phrase "make every effort." He knew he would
have to do exactly that. He then turned his attention to another verse from that
same chapter in Hebrews: "Let us then approach the throne of grace with
confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time
of need." He copied the scripture into his prayer journal and wrote the
words "with confidence" in italics. He closed his journal and began
the wait. (Hebrews 4:11; 16.)
The next three
days brought unspeakable discomfort. The test results confirmed what they
feared: he had contracted Ebola. Kent's wife, Amber, along with their two
children, were at her parent’s home in the States when he called her with the
diagnosis. When her phone rang, she hurried to the bedroom for some privacy.
Kent got straight to the point. "The test results came back. It's
positive." Amber began to cry. They talked for a few moments before Kent
said that he was tired and would call again soon. Now it was Amber's turn to
process the news. She and her parents sat on the edge of her bed and wept. Then,
after some time, Amber excused herself and went outside.
She walked
across a field toward a large mesquite tree and took a seat on a low-hanging
branch. She found it difficult to find words to formulate her prayers, so she
used the lyrics of hymns she had learned as a young girl. There is no shadow of turning with Thee; Thou changest not, Thy
compassions, they fail not. As Thou hast been Thou forever wilt be. The
words lifted her spirits, so she began to sing aloud another song she
treasured: I need Thee every hour, in joy
or pain; Come quickly and abide, or life is in vain. I need Thee, O I need
Thee; Every hour I need Thee; O bless me now, my Savior, I come to Thee. She
later wrote, "I thought my husband was going to die. I was afraid. Through
those hymns, though, I was able to connect with God in a meaningful way when I
couldn't find my own words to pray."
Kent was
transported from Africa to Atlanta. His caregivers chose to risk an untested
treatment. Little by little his condition improved. Within a few days his
strength began to return. The entire world, it seemed, rejoiced when he was
able to exit the hospital, cured of Ebola. We can applaud the Brantlys' victory
over this disease and another, a virus that is every bit as deadly and
contagious: the unseen contagion of anxiety. Kent and Amber were prime
candidates for panic, yet they reacted with the same resolve that enabled them
to battle Ebola. They stayed connected to the vine. They resolved to abide in
Christ. Kent opened his Bible. Amber meditated on
hymns. They filled their minds with the truth of God. Jesus taught us to do the
same. He tells us, rather bluntly, "Do not worry about your life, what you
will eat or what you will drink; nor about your body, what you will put on."
(Matt. 6:25) He then gives two commands: "look" and
"consider."
He tells us to "look
at the birds of the air." (Matt. 6:26) When we do, we notice how happy
they seem to be. They aren't frowning, cranky or even grumpy. They don't appear
sleep deprived or lonely. They sing, whistle and soar. Yet "they neither
sow nor reap nor gather into barns." (v. 26) They don't drive tractors, or
harvest wheat, yet Jesus asks us, “Do they appear well cared for?” He then
turns our attention to the flowers of the field. "Consider the lilies,"
he says. (v. 28) Less than the birds, they don't do anything. Even though their
life span is short, God dresses them up for red-carpet appearances. Even
Solomon, the richest king in history, "was not arrayed like one of these."
(v. 29)
So, how do we disarm anxiety? Stockpile our minds with God
thoughts. Draw the logical implication: if birds and flowers fall under the
category of God's care, won't he care for us as well? Saturate your heart with
the goodness of God. "Set your mind on things above, not on things on the
earth." (Col. 3:2) Free from fear. Free from dread. And, yes, free from
anxiety.
Grace,
Randy
Clingy - Audio/Visual
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